


misty blue

by janewestin, wilfriede0815



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Movie Timeline, Prequel, the lightest angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilfriede0815/pseuds/wilfriede0815
Summary: the movie, but make it gay!*this story does double duty as a standalone (with minor changes to character canon) and as a prequel to a sunday kind of love. you do not have to read that to read this :)**all the gratitude in the world to my absolutely cosmic co-author wilfriede0815, without whom this story would not exist. thank you for making me a better writer <3
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 114
Kudos: 259





	1. just the thought of you

It sneaks up on her like nothing has before. She’s young, though, and it was bound to happen eventually. It might have been a boy with a guitar, or a girl wearing Vans and aviator sunglasses. Might have, if she’d been a little luckier, or if she’d decided to go to Stanford after all. 

A lesser woman would blister and burn, would take each of Miranda’s words—“ _disappointed me more than any of those other silly girls”—_ like a dagger to the heart. Andy’s a Midwesterner. She’s made of stronger stuff. 

She bites back the urge to snap _It’s not like you’ve never stood him up before_. Miranda cancels on her husband fully half the time, so Andy can’t see why this is any different. “I really did everything I could think of,” she says, though the words taste acrid on her tongue. 

Miranda looks away, a peculiar twisting expression on her face. Her tone dismisses, inarguably. “That’s all.” 

It takes every molecule of Andy’s self-control to keep from stomping out of the room. She feels like sweeping her computer onto the floor and slamming the door on Miranda Priestly for good. 

“Excuse me,” Emily yells from behind her, as the office door closes, “where do you think you’re going?”

*

She’s gone for over an hour, long enough that she knows Miranda will have left for the day. Her phone doesn’t ring, and Emily doesn’t come looking for her. She might have a job when she gets back, and she might not, but if she gets fired, at least she’ll get fired looking—

“Hm,” Nigel says, turning her first this way, then that. “Still more sow’s ear than silk purse.” But he’s smiling, a little self-satisfied smile, and that tells Andy more than the mirror ever could.

*

It sneaks up on her.

Andy doesn’t lose. _Ever_. She’s wrong, sometimes, sure, but she doesn’t _lose_. She sees, now, what it takes to win.

Chanel. Miu Miu. A Shu Uemura eyelash curler. 

She’s expecting approval. Absolution, even, from the Miami incident. A week passes, and it doesn’t come. Miranda barely looks at her. Doesn’t appear to register in theslightest the change to Andy’s appearance. 

It chafes. Andy _doesn’t lose._

An extra necklace, another bracelet. More eyeliner. She practices walking in five-inch heels and touches up her lipstick after she gets to work. 

_Clack-clack-clack_ on the marble. Heads turn when she passes, but Andy doesn’t notice.

Miranda’s on the phone, and she doesn’t look up right away, so Andy has just enough time to straighten up beside the desk. To lift her chin. To plaster a pandering grin on her face, the kind everyone around here wears when they’re smiling at all. 

And then Miranda’s gaze lifts. She stops dead in her tracks. She stops talking, even, and Andy sees the phone drop a little in her hand. 

Andy’s expecting approval, so the expression on Miranda’s face comes as something of a shock. 

*

She’s not quite sure how she ends up back at her desk, but Emily is tossing folders at her and barking orders, and obeying them is considerably easier than contemplating—whatever _that_ was.

“ _Andrea_.” Emily is glaring at her. One crimson fingernail jabs in the direction of the clock. 

Andy stands. Chanel or no, the Starbucks isn’t going to get itself. 

*

Nate’s asleep by the time she gets home. She quakes beside him, one hand between her thighs, the other clamped over her mouth. He doesn’t even roll over.

*

By ten the next morning, Andy is pretty sure she had imagined the whole thing. Miranda had been earlier than usual, after all. She hadn’t expected to see Andy still setting up the desk. 

She’s pleasantly surprised to find that she does, in fact, feel transformed in the designer clothes. People in the office look at her differently, for one thing: there’s approval on their faces now, instead of disdain. She shouldn’t care about that, but it feels—well, it feels like winning. And Emily has been talking to her. It’s not _friendliness_ , exactly, but it’s at least a grudging kind of respect. 

“You look nice,” Jocelyn says, on her way into Miranda’s office. It’s the first time Jocelyn has ever even acknowledged Andy’s existence. Andy’s so startled that she forgets to answer.

*

It sneaks up on her. It might have taken longer, had it not been for the bracelet.

Innocuous enough. Lucia had pressed it into her hand earlier that day—“don’t tell her I forgot,” panic in her eyes—and she had put it in her pocket. She only remembers after she’s placed Miranda’s afternoon latte on her desk. _Shit_. She’ll just say it was her fault. Miranda has already reprimanded Lucia once today.

She turns back, her fingers curled around the bracelet, lifting. Mouth already opening to offer an apology.

The words die in her throat. 

Miranda drops her gaze at once, but Andy has already seen. Seems she isn’t imagining things, after all. 

*

Andy has never thought she _wasn’t_ attractive, it’s just that she’s always had too much to do to worry about her appearance. And she’s never dated anyone who cared that much about what she wore. Of course, she’s never been cognizant of any admiration from afar, either, so Miranda’s _awareness_ of her starts up a little thrum in the pit of her stomach.

If she thinks about it too much, though, the thrum twists and tangles into something that feels uncomfortable and wrong. Miranda’s her boss. Miranda is older, and married. And is also, oh yeah, _her boss_. Andy tries not to remember what people usually call employers who pursue their much-younger assistants.

But.

Miranda’s not actually _pursuing_ her, is she? Andy caught her staring, okay. But it isn’t like it happens _often_. And she could have been mistaken. She could definitely have been mistaken.

Sure.

*

\- dinner, Pastis

\- late tonight, don’t wait up

\- dinner, Le Cirque

\- dinner, Smith and Wollensky, carry-out

\- hotel confirmed for Toronto

\- no more than $17,000 (This mind-boggling sum is entirely without explanation, but Stephen seems to understand.)

It’s not that he’s particularly objectionable on the phone—he’s brusque, certainly, but not rude—it’s that he seems completely disinterested. His response to each of Andy’s daily Miranda updates is a flat “That’s fine.” No follow-up inquiries. No irritation at all, not even when she calls him three nights in a row to tell him that Miranda will not be home until after eleven. Eventually, she stops trying to be cheerful. 

*

Andy thinks a lot about what she wears these days. 

If she worked anywhere else, she wouldn’t be able to get away with half the outfits she puts together. But everyone at Runway looks outrageous, so she doesn’t feel the least bit self-conscious about wearing, say, a one-shoulder bandage dress with over-the-knee boots. 

(A little self-conscious, maybe. She throws on a long cardigan at the last minute.)

And she’s not mistaken. She knows that now. She’s turned it into a kind of game—whirling at the last minute to remind Miranda of something she’s “forgotten” to mention, or coming around the corner unexpectedly to deliver a mockup layout from the art department. She keeps her gaze averted, but she sees, nonetheless. 

Miranda can’t—won’t—wouldn’t. Which makes Andy so power-drunk that she almost _does_ forget things. Especially when she realizes that Miranda can’t quite look her in the eye lately. Especially when she sees _that look_ flash across Miranda’s face even as she’s issuing commands.

But the fulfillment of said commands seems to be satisfactory, and Andy’s pretty sure a short skirt wouldn’t waylay a haranguing if it was warranted. She’s pleased but not surprised when Miranda tells her to deliver the Book. 

The key seems to float from Emily’s hand to Andy’s. She curls her fingers around it, feeling the leather keyring press into her palm. Warmth spreads up her arm and down into her chest. 

Emily tasks her with invisibility, but Andy is no longer listening.

*

He doesn’t sound disinterested now.

Sharp and angry from the second floor: “I rushed out of an investment committee meeting. I sat there waiting for you for almost an hour.” 

Andy freezes, hands still on the Book, and glances upward. She thought it would be intimate, being in Miranda’s house. She’d spent the afternoon wondering if the foyer was scented with Miranda’s perfume. Thinking, too, about what color the walls were, and what type of flowers might be on the table (not freesias). There were three garments from the dry cleaner: two men’s shirts, and a black dress. Andy realized, with something like an electric jolt, that it was the same black dress Miranda had been wearing the day she’d returned from Miami. 

It’s intimate, but in a way that makes Andy’s stomach feel curdled and ill. She feels like she’s come crashing back to earth. She shouldn’t be here. 

Miranda says something, and Andy can’t make out the words, but the tone turns her blood to ice. Miranda...is _pleading._

Andy gets the hell out of there.

*

For the rest of the week, she doesn’t try to catch Miranda staring. She keeps her head down and her pen on paper, and by Friday afternoon she is tired and irritable.

Nate texts her at three: _Dinner tonight_?

She sends back: _Can’t. Book._

He doesn’t reply.

*

If Andy is grouchy, Miranda is positively irascible. She ignores Andy for three full days, then makes up for it by hacking at Andy’s self-esteem for forty-eight hours straight. 

And then, to make the week even worse, Emily slips on the newly-waxed floor. Her ankle swells to the size of a grapefruit, so Andy tacks Calvin Klein and Hermès onto her already-bloated list of errands. Miranda’s car has some kind of electrical malfunction and has to be taken to the dealership in Hell’s Kitchen, which makes Andy late with the coffee, which means that the coffee is cold, which means that Miranda’s already-foul mood turns even fouler.

During her eight months at this job, Andy has felt in turn angry, anxious, flustered, nauseated, and frazzled. She has never, until today, felt panicked.

“You want _everything_ rescheduled?” she squeaks.

Miranda’s eyes narrow viciously. “Well, we know everyone at James Holt, so it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” A pause. Her voice pitches low. “And you can do anything. Right?”

She draws out the word, her lips curling at the edges in an expression that is positively snakelike. 

Andy is pretty sure there was a time, maybe a week and a half ago, when Miranda had looked at her with something other than poison. She’s pretty sure, but it’s honestly kind of hard to believe, particularly after Miranda gives a timeline that makes Andy want to throw up.

But here’s the thing: Andy Sachs does not lose.

*

Nate’s blameless. Andy picks a fight anyway.

If she’s being specific, she picks three fights. By Sunday night—the end of their last weekend as a couple—she is furious and exhausted, which is why, after Nate storms out of the apartment, she immediately calls James Holt.

He’d taken her phone out of her hands at the rescheduled run-through and typed in his number. _If it doesn’t work out with the boyfriend_ , he’d said, flashing a grin, _you let me know_. 

She’d meant to delete it. She’s viciously glad she didn’t.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” James says, five minutes later, “but Andy, I don’t think this is the right time.” 

She wants to hang up on him. She wants to hate him for being so fucking _decent_. Instead she says, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You, uh.” A pause. “You okay?”

She bites her tongue so hard she can taste blood.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”

*

On Tuesday, Nate comes home with a two-day beard and a new suitcase. By Friday, she lives alone.


	2. just the mention of your name

It snuck up on her, and now it has her by the throat. 

She’s given up on Miranda ever looking at her _like that_ again. She knows, now, that it was wishful thinking all along. Miranda isn’t _attracted_ to her. She’s mortified that it even crossed her mind. 

Unfortunately, thoughts of Miranda have wound themselves inextricably through her psyche. They rear up at the most inconvenient times—mostly at night, but occasionally when she’s taking notes during a meeting, or when she’s in the back of the car with Miranda. 

She tongue-fucked her girlfriend in the limo on prom night. She tries not to think about that on the way to Versace.

*

The day before the benefit, Serena stops her in the hall.

“Come for drinks,” she says, in that curiously straightforward way she has. 

Andy blinks at her. “Excuse me?”

Serena’s lips curve in a tiny smile. “You broke up with him,” she says, “so come out with me.”

And then she’s gone. Andy stares after her, speechless. 

*

She emerges from the bathroom as Miranda is rounding the corner. 

Miranda stops. Andy does, too.

For a moment, Andy’s chest tightens with anxiety. Surely she hasn’t broken a rule. It can’t be against any policy to change clothes for a night out, particularly when said clothes are literally another workplace outfit. 

Miranda looks at Andy. And continues to look at Andy. Her mouth opens a little, but nothing comes out.

“Hi,” Andy says, uncertain.

Miranda takes a little breath, as though she’s about to reply, and then—

“Oh, there you are.” 

Serena’s throaty voice from somewhere to her left, and a half-second later, a slender arm is threading through hers. “Hi, Miranda,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Miranda’s expression goes completely blank. Her lips pull tight. She puts on her sunglasses and walks away.

*

Andy has a pretty good night after that. 

*

She wakes up the next day with a headache that’s not quite a hangover. Her recollection of the evening is pleasantly softened around the edges, which she suspects is more due to two AM than the martinis. 

“Turn that off,” Serena orders, her face mostly in her pillow.

Andy cancels the alarm and sits up. “Gotta go,” she says. She and Emily arrive at Runway a full ninety minutes before anyone else. She doesn’t usually resent it.

“Take something from the closet.” Serena rolls over and pulls the blanket over her head. 

*

It’s ostensibly because of Emily’s cold, but Andy doesn’t think that’s really why Miranda wants her at the benefit.

*

The headache, which had subsided during the day, comes back. Emily is miserable, and after half an hour of facial recognition, Andy is too. What’s she even doing here? Emily knows everyone, and—

It’s because she moved so quickly to whisper into Miranda’s ear. That’s the only reason she can still feel the brush of Miranda’s skin against hers. 

*

Stephen doesn’t show.

Andy sees Miranda look for him exactly once, right at the time he’s supposed to arrive. Once. Anyone else would have missed the way the corners of her mouth tighten. Anyone else would have missed the flash of bright fury in her eyes.

She’s short with everyone after that, still gracious and smiling, but clearly making her rounds of the crowd. She sends Emily home before eleven. Andy keeps expecting to be dismissed, too, but it never happens. Nor does Miranda really acknowledge Andy’s presence, other than to tip her head toward Andy when a new person approaches. By midnight, Andy’s feet are screaming and her head feels like it’s going to explode.

“Have Roy bring the car around,” Miranda says finally.

For all Andy’s fantasizing about Miranda, she’s pretty fucking annoyed with her right now. She’s going to have to cab it back to Queens. She’s not going to get into bed until after one AM, probably. Why, she wonders crossly, is the benefit on a _weeknight_?

She’s still thinking irritable thoughts when Roy opens the door, which is why she completely misses the fact that he’s waiting for her to get in.

“Andrea,” Miranda snaps from the backseat.

Andy looks behind her, as though Miranda might be ordering around some other, less grouchy Andrea. Then she looks back at Miranda.

Miranda jerks her head. Andy gets in. 

“Thanks,” she says, still feeling a little petulant. 

Miranda doesn’t answer. Instead, as Roy slides into the car, she says, “Take Andrea home first.” 

Andy stares blankly at her. They’re literally ten minutes from Miranda’s townhouse. “Uh,” she says. “I can—”

“You got it,” Roy interrupts pointedly. 

Well. He’s known her longer. Andy shuts up.

As they pull away from the curb, Miranda pushes the button to roll up the privacy screen. For some reason, this makes Andy’s heart start to hammer. For _some_ reason. Like she doesn’t know.

Miranda wouldn’t. But maybe Andy would. 

Miranda’s not looking at her; she’s gazing out the window. She’s acting like Andy isn’t there at all. 

Two minutes pass. 

Andy thinks about Serena in the hall: _Come out with me._ She takes her hand out of her lap and puts it on the seat beside her. If Miranda sees, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Roy’s playing music, some lo-fi instrumental station. It reminds Andy of the first time she’d met James. _You’ll never survive Miranda_ , he’d said. 

She moves her hand three inches toward Miranda.

A moment after she does, Miranda’s hand slides off her thigh and lands next to Andy’s. There’s no more than six inches between them. She’s still looking out the window. Andy can’t see her face.

James was right. This is going to kill her.

She’s tired. Her feet and lower back are aching. Her judgment is off. She moves her hand again.

 _Check_ , she thinks dizzily.

Miranda’s hand doesn’t move toward her, exactly, but it rotates, her fingers now stretching in the direction of Andy’s left leg. Andy looks up and sees that Miranda’s shoulders have pulled tight. That her jaw is clenched. Other than the slight movement of her hand, she is totally motionless. 

_Mate_ , Andy thinks, and slides her hand over Miranda’s. 

She hears Miranda’s sharp inhale. The fingers beneath hers tense, but Miranda doesn’t pull away.

Andy breathes. She feels like she’s forgotten to do that lately.

Minutes go by. Miranda doesn’t move. Andy doesn’t either.

Miranda wouldn’t. 

But Andy has.

Miranda’s turned her face even more, so all Andy can see, basically, is the back of her head. If Andy leaned, she’d be able to press a kiss to Miranda’s lovely shoulders. She doesn’t, of course, because although her judgment is off, she hasn’t gone _completely_ off the rails. 

She moves her forefinger, takes a risk, strokes it lightly down the side of Miranda’s pinky. That inhale again, only this time, it sounds slightly shaky.

Andy moves to Miranda’s ring finger, skims her nails over the creases of Miranda’s knuckles. She’s never in her life done anything this slowly; she’s never been more mindful of her movements. It’s as though her senses have all been turned up past maximum: she tries to memorize every tiny sound, every square millimeter of Miranda’s skin beneath hers. 

When the car approaches her building, she pulls her hand away. She doesn’t expect Miranda to turn, and she isn’t surprised. 

She opens the door. “Good night,” she says quietly, and slides out of the car.

*

Miranda doesn’t look at her for the rest of the week.

*

She goes out with Serena again the following weekend, mostly because she’s feeling spiteful. But the evening ends up being fun and Serena gives no indication that she expects anything of Andy but drinks, dancing, and sex. 

They sit on the balcony afterward. Serena rolls a joint and lights it, inhaling delicately. She offers it to Andy. 

“Um.” Andy’s never felt inclined, but she finds herself taking the joint from Serena’s manicured fingertips. “Thanks.” 

She inhales, coughs, laughs. Serena laughs too.

*

She’s got it down to less than forty seconds by now. Up the stairs, ten seconds. Unlock the door, five seconds. Dry cleaning in the closet, ten seconds. Book on the table, eight seconds. Back outside, six seconds. It’s a good routine, and Roy lives in Brooklyn, so he doesn’t mind sticking around to take her home. 

Only this time, as she’s putting the dry cleaning in the closet, she hears “Andrea.”

She finds Miranda sitting in a little study. Her hair is tousled and half in her eyes, as though she’s been raking her hand through it. She’s not wearing any shoes. She is, however, wearing glasses, which for some reason makes Andy feel slightly short of breath.

“You have the Book?” 

Andy hands it to her with lips clamped shut, not trusting that she won’t accidentally tell Miranda how hot she looks. 

“Paris,” Miranda says, thumbing through the Book apparently at random, “is the most important week of my entire year.” 

This sounds like a lead-in, because Miranda can’t possibly think Andy has missed the constant talk of Paris for the past three months. 

“I need the best possible team with me,” Miranda continues, and Andy’s stomach flips over. And flips again, when Miranda finally lifts her gaze to Andy’s. 

“That no longer includes Emily,” she says, and Andy would feel bad for Emily, she really really would, if Miranda were not pinning her with a gaze that all but screams _get over here and kiss me_.

“Aha,” Andy says vaguely. “So you want me to...to go.”

Miranda’s expression morphs into something significantly more familiar. She rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll, um.” Andy swallows hard. “Okay. I’ll add a room onto the block.”

Miranda hesitates.

Andy can only tell it’s a hesitation because Miranda does a little hitching breath, the kind you do when you’re trying to think of what to say. When she finally speaks, her tone is cooler and her words come a little faster, as though she’s trying very hard to sound nonchalant.

“You’ll stay in the suite,” she says.

It takes every ounce of Andy’s fortitude to keep from falling over. She does an awkward little nod. “Okay,” she manages.

Miranda’s lips are tight. “That’s all,” she says.

*

It isn’t all, though.

Andy knows that Stephen will be in Toronto until his arrival in Paris. And now that she’s actually beenin the house, she can’t stop thinking about Miranda calling her into the study.

“You can go,” she tells Roy. “I’ll get a cab. Stuff to do for Paris.”

He nods, smiles. She waves as he pulls away.

Ten seconds up the stairs. Five seconds to unlock the door. Dry cleaning in the closet. She stops, cradling the Book in her arms. Listens. 

From somewhere upstairs, Miranda coughs.

It’s such an obviously fake cough that Andy almost laughs out loud. Her heels sink into the plush carpet as she mounts the stairs, pausing long enough to look up the four-story stairwell. Fortunately, she sees Miranda as soon as she gets to the second floor.

It’s a study. There’s a desk on each side: one is a carved oak behemoth, stacked with leather-bound books. The other is glass, and Miranda is sitting at it.

Andy steps onto the landing, deliberately avoiding the rug, letting her heel tap hit the hardwood. Miranda’s back is to Andy, and she doesn’t look up. She continues to type.

Andy takes a step toward her, then another. Miranda is the editor-in-chief of ignoring. 

She’s directly behind Miranda now. She puts the Book on the desk beside Miranda’s keyboard, setting it down gently, so it doesn’t make a noise. As though Miranda might startle and bolt like a spooked horse. 

She’s never been this close to Miranda for any amount of time. Miranda has _freckles_. Andy might faint. 

If she faints, though, she won’t be able to do what she does next, which is to reach up and lightly press her fingertips to the soft hollows behind Miranda’s ears. 

Miranda stops typing. Stops moving at all. Andy can’t even see her breathing. A faint flush has started at the base of her neck. 

Andy decides at that moment that she has never wanted anyone more in her entire life. 

If she moves her hands down just a little, if she slides her fingers down either side of Miranda’s neck, she’ll be able to feel Miranda’s pulse. She wants to know.

When she does it, Miranda makes a sound. It’s a tiny, helpless sound, from somewhere in the back of her throat. Her pulse hammers against Andy’s fingertips. 

What Andy really wants to do is spin Miranda’s chair around and kiss her, but Andy is pretty sure that Miranda will panic if she does that. Instead, she bends down, fingertips still on Miranda’s throat, and puts her lips, very lightly, on the nape of Miranda’s neck.

It’s not a kiss, not really. Her mouth is barely touching Miranda’s skin. She just stays like that, breathing, feeling Miranda’s heart beating faster and faster beneath her hands. 

Miranda wouldn’t, but Andy will. 

After a moment, she stands and lets her hands fall. Miranda stays perfectly still, even as Andy retreats down the stairs. When she gets to the foyer, she pauses, listening. Silence.

She locks the door behind her, then sits down on Miranda’s front steps to call for a cab. She’s pretty sure she’s going to grin all the way home.

Andy Sachs, after all, does not lose.

*

It’s kind of unfortunate that Andy does not have any friends with questionable judgment. 

Lily hasn’t spoken to her since the breakup. Doug isn’t quite as frosty as he had been, but Andy’s pretty sure he invents rules if there aren’t any to follow. She’d actually considered talking to Serena, but there’s the small matter of Serena also being in Miranda’s employ.

She ends up calling her college roommate, who, despite majoring in accounting, has tattoos on both arms and a wild streak wider than the Ohio River. 

“Wow, long time no talk,” Trixie says.

“I’m going to sleep with my boss,” Andy replies.

*

Trixie advises quitting beforehand. It’s probably the right thing to do, but Andy has never been to Paris.


	3. flicker to a flame

She doesn’t see James approach. Doesn’t even realize he’s next to her until he’s in her ear: “I’ve been thinking.”

She jumps. Laughs. “Oh.”

“You still owe me for that reschedule.” He flashes a grin. Apparently he’s decided that it’s been long enough since the breakup. 

“Oh, do I,” she says, even though it rankles a little, hearing _You owe me_ from anyone who isn’t Miranda. 

“Of course you do.” His hand is on her waist, suddenly, steering her away from the cameras. “You working tonight?” 

Miranda has a dinner; she won’t be back at the suite until late. Andy could have a perfectly nice time with this perfectly nice person. It’s her first night in Paris, after all. 

She’s just opening her mouth to answer when she hears Miranda’s voice. 

“Andrea.” Sharply. Andy’s head whips around. Miranda has shaken off a reporter and is five feet away, one hand outstretched, an impatient expression on her face. 

A warm little glow starts in her chest. “Too busy,” she says to James. 

The hand falls as soon as Andy takes a step toward Miranda. That’s okay. She knows what it meant.

*

James had really pissed her off, back then, when he’d told her _It’s not the right time._

She knows what he meant, now, because Stephen’s leaving Miranda, and it’s definitely, totally, absolutely not the right time. Fucking Stephen. She wants to punch his stupid smarmy face, and not just because she had been mostly sure she was going to sleep with Miranda on this trip. She wants to punch his stupid smarmy face because Miranda looks—she looks so _sad_. Andy’s never seen her without makeup before. 

“If you want me to cancel your evening, I can,” she says, inanely, and then wants to punch _herself_ in the face. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miranda says flatly. “Why would we do that?” 

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Because Stephen’s an asshole,” she says, and then realizes, abruptly and horrifyingly, that she no longer _just_ wants to sleep with her boss.

*

When Miranda gets back, she’ll apologize.

She regretted saying it immediately. Regretted it even more when Miranda gave her that strange, bewildered look, then got up and went into her room without another word. Andy didn’t hear her leave for dinner.

She considers calling James, because she could really use a friendly face, but it feels disingenuous at this point. She wanders downstairs, buys something in a fancy glass that turns out to be head cheese, goes back and buys a croissant, then retreats to her room and watches French TV. At some point, she falls asleep.

*

At ten-fifteen, her phone buzzes.

She slaps at the nightstand blearily, wraps her fingers around the phone, brings it close to her face. Sits straight up when she sees that it’s Miranda.

 _Tea_ , the text message says.

She snatches the landline and smashes the button for room service. It’s late, but a very nice lady answers, and she doesn’t even make Andy fumble through the order in French. 

*

Tea, four kinds. And a charcuterie board, and fresh fruit, and a bowl of onion soup without cheese, which she’s recently discovered that Miranda likes. She’s just removing the plastic wrap from the fruit plate when she hears the whir of the electronic lock.

Miranda’s wearing a dark red gown tonight; topaz and diamonds sparkle at her earlobes. She looks fantastic. She also looks very, very tired. 

Her gaze flicks over the spread on the table, and then up to Andy’s face. She holds up one finger as she passes, and Andy understands this to mean that she will be back as soon as she peels herself out of the gown.

The bedroom door clicks shut, and a moment later Andy hears the shower turn on. She parks herself on the sofa and sits in the half-dark, listening. 

This was a lot simpler eight hours ago. 

When Miranda emerges, she’s wearing the same grey bathrobe she’d worn earlier in the day. She glances at Andy as she passes. 

“Don’t just sit there in the dark, Andrea,” she says. The words would have a lot more bite, Andy thinks, if the person speaking them wasn’t barefoot, with wet hair.

She sits on one side of the table and Miranda sits on the other. After a moment, Miranda reaches for the fruit plate.

“This is more than tea,” she says. 

“Yeah, well.” Andy looks down at her teacup. “You don’t eat much at these things.”

Miranda picks a grape and rolls it between her fingers. “No,” she says. “I suppose I don’t.” 

She puts the grape in her mouth. Chews. Andy gives up trying not to watch her. And maybe it’s the late hour, or the fact that Stephen is an asshole, but Miranda sees Andy watching and doesn’t seem to mind. She does, however, push the charcuterie toward Andy, presumably so she doesn’t have to eat alone.

The silence is sort of getting to Andy. There’s an iHome on the sideboard with an iPod—not Andy’s, not Miranda’s, did this fancy hotel supply iPods?—and Andy gets up and turns it on. Definitely the hotel’s, as the first song on the preloaded playlist is Edith Piaf.

Miranda picks at the fruit plate with her forehead resting in her hand. “He is an asshole,” she says suddenly. The words sound only half-developed, as though she’s never had the thought before and is experimenting with saying it aloud. She sighs and drops the strawberry she’d been holding. Rubs at the back of her neck, and sighs again.

Andy thinks of the desk. Of a beating pulse, and soft shaky breaths, and the way she could almost taste Miranda’s skin. 

It’s not the right time, but she can do something right.

She pushes her chair back, stands. Miranda doesn’t seem surprised when Andy moves behind her, but she doesn’t look up at Andy, either.

Andy was tentative, before. She isn’t now. She’s still cautious, because she’s aware—and she’s pretty sure Miranda’s aware—that this could blow up in their faces at any moment. But when she puts her hands on Miranda’s shoulders, it’s not experimentation. Nor is the way Miranda leans into her touch.

“Here,” Andy says, and presses the pads of both thumbs into the knotted muscles at Miranda’s neck.

It’s not an involuntary sound, quickly stifled. Miranda’s head tips forward, and Andy hears her quiet moan. 

Eight hours ago, hearing Miranda make a noise like that would have made Andy basically liquify. But Stephen is an asshole, and Miranda looks so tired, and Andy just feels kind of...warm. Like she wants to knead the sadness right out of Miranda’s body. And it’s working: Miranda’s shoulders are loosening, her hands dropping palm-up and open into her lap. She looks as though she could fall asleep in her chair. Which won’t do, obviously. 

Miranda looks up when Andy’s hands stop moving, her expression first affronted, then startled, as though she’s surprised even herself. 

Andy tips her head toward Miranda’s bedroom. “C’mon,” she says, and turns before Miranda can reply. 

She’s almost expecting Miranda to refuse, to say _What do you think you’re doing, Andrea_ , but then she hears the scrape of the chair on hardwood, and the soft pad of Miranda’s bare feet behind her. 

Her heart does a cartwheel. (Other parts of her are cartwheeling, too, but she’s trying extremely hard to ignore those parts. There are feelings involved now.)

She gets to the bed. _Miranda’s_ bed. Jesus Christ.

She hesitates, not totally sure if she should toss back the covers or not. Fortunately, Miranda makes the decision for her. She passes Andy, sits down on the bed, and stretches out on her stomach. She doesn’t meet Andy’s eyes.

Andy will. 

And Miranda... _might_.

Miranda is precariously close to the edge of the bed. Andy nudges her gently. “Scoot.”

Miranda scoots.

If her back weren’t already stiff from the plane ride and eighteen hours of stilettos, she might try to maintain _some_ decorum, and remain standing. The bed is low. She sits. 

She doesn’t really know what she’s doing—she’s gleaned the entirety of her massage knowledge from receiving them—but she knows what she likes, so that’s what she tries to replicate. If this weren’t Paris, if she wasn’t so tired, if Miranda wasn’t so sad—but all those things are true, and for once, Andy’s rational brain just shuts the hell up.

Her hands walk up and down Miranda’s spine, rolling and pressing and sliding. Miranda’s breathing has gone slow and gentle.

_I could touch her for the rest of my life._

She has no idea if it’s been ten minutes or forty when she looks down and realizes Miranda is asleep.

*

Something is tapping.

Andy’s first thought is that she’s never been this goddamn tired in her life. All she wants is her own bed, and to sleep for the next twelve hours. But the tapping hasn’t stopped, and it dawns on her that someone is knocking on her door. 

She sits up. “Coming,” she groans.

Miranda is already dressed, fully made up, and looking extremely grouchy. She thrusts a piece of paper into Andy’s hand.

“Cancel my evening,” she says. “Make a reservation. Eight-thirty.”

Andy looks down at the scrawled restaurant name and sighs.

*

She makes the reservation for six people, because Miranda didn’t specify. 

“Do you want both cars for dinner?” Andy asks, on the way to the Tom Ford show. 

Miranda looks at Andy like Andy has suddenly grown another head. “Why on earth would I want both cars?”

Andy blinks. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how many people were coming.”

Miranda’s forehead creases. “What?”

“I think we’re miscommunicating,” Andy says, tamping down her irritation. “How many people are invited to dinner?”

There’s a pause. “Two,” Miranda says. The second-head expression has vanished. Something like amusement touches the corners of her mouth.

Andy’s stomach drops. _Two_. A date, maybe. Stephen is out of the picture, and Miranda is having her set up a date. 

“Got it,” she says, looking down at her notebook and trying not to sound totally crushed. “I’ll call and change it.”

“Andrea.”

Andy drags her gaze back up to Miranda’s face and forces a smile. “Yeah?”

Miranda tilts her head. “The second person,” she says, “is you.”


	4. my whole world

To say that Andy is preoccupied for the remainder of the day is an understatement of prodigious proportions. She can’t seem to remember anything anyone says, and she actually _forgets her notebook_ in the back of the car, which, at least, provides twenty minutes of panicked distraction from her thoughts.

She’s going...to dinner...with Miranda.

Miranda has _canceled her plans_ to have dinner with _Andy_.

Miranda, it seems, is not similarly encumbered. “ _Andrea_ ,” she says sharply, all but snapping her fingers at Andy.

Andy shoves the last of the itineraries into her bag. “Coming,” she squeaks.

*

At four PM, Miranda sends her back to the hotel.

She’s just sliding across the seat toward the open car door when Miranda’s hand lands lightly on her knee.

“I don’t need you for this,” she says, not quite meeting Andy’s eyes.

Andy’s so startled by the sudden contact—the first contact Miranda has ever initiated—that she forgets to point out that Miranda has three more places to be before dinner, and who will take notes? “Ah. What,” she says, stammering.

Miranda removes her hand. “Go back to the hotel,” she says. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.” She all but slams her sunglasses onto her face, stands, and closes the car door so quickly that Andy has to jerk her hand out of the way.

*

Eight-fifteen.

The table isn’t private or quiet, but it’s at least at the back of the room. And the restaurant isn’t fancy—not the kind that Miranda would patronize if she were going out with, say, Irv. Or Stephen, for that matter.

She keeps her eyes on the door. She doesn’t even look away when the waiter comes by to ask if she wants water, or bread, or a glass of wine. She thinks she knows what this dinner means, but she’s not totally sure, and—

The murmur of the diners around her fades to a dull hum when Miranda walks in. The lights from the candelabras blur. Andy’s on her feet.

She sees Miranda’s chin lift. Sees her scan the room, her eyes narrowed and her lips thin. When their gazes lock, Andy knows she was right.

Andy’s grown accustomed, by now, to catching the flare of want in Miranda’s eyes. That was what started it in the first place, after all. But that’s not how Miranda looks now. Her expression softens, and stays soft.

Andy is glad that she’s not the one walking. She’s not entirely sure she could.

Miranda moves toward Andy, weaving through the tables without so much as a glance downward. Andy should step forward to greet her, pull out her chair, _something_ , but she’s frozen to the spot.

“Andrea,” Miranda says, and Andy’s heart explodes.

She feels her cheeks heat up. Miranda’s sitting down, seemingly unaware that she’s just recalibrated Andy’s entire existence. “Hi,” she says. “Um. You look nice.”

Her internal cringe almost manifests on her face, because _nice,_ really? But Miranda doesn’t roll her eyes, or look exasperated, or make any of the faces that Miranda usually makes when someone says something totally banal.

“Thank you,” she says. “So do you.”

The appearance of their waiter, wielding olives, saves Andy from trying to formulate a coherent next sentence. Miranda orders wine and gougères in flawless French.

There’s something different about her. It’s not the dress, although Andy’s impressed that she had time to change into eveningwear. Miranda exists in a constant state of tension. Tonight, the tension is gone.

“You’re staring, Andrea,” Miranda says. She looks down at the menu.

The words tumble out before she can stop them. “Can’t help it.”

Miranda doesn’t reply, but her lips curve, and Andy sees a little color start to creep up her chest.

“Thank you,” Andy adds.

Miranda looks up. A little crease appears in her forehead. “For?”

“You know.” Andy gestures at the table. “You. This.”

There’s a long pause. Andy feels slightly ill. It’s a perfectly normal thing to say, isn’t it?

“Andrea,” Miranda says at last, and pauses again, and sighs.

Andy tries not to grimace. “Yes?”

“If this is going to—” She seems to be having trouble finding the words, which somehow both quells Andy’s trepidation and makes it infinitely worse.

“You have feelings for me,” Miranda says at last.

The floor seems to drop out from under Andy’s chair. She presses both hands to the table in an effort to keep from falling with it.

“I’m sorry,” she manages to say, her voice strangled. Oh _God_. She went too far. She's going to get fired. She’ll never see Miranda again. The nausea intensifies.

The table is small, which is why it’s easy for Miranda to reach across it and cover Andy’s hand with her own.

Andy looks down. Miranda’s wedding ring is gone.

“If this is going to work,” Miranda says, quietly now, appearing to speak mostly to Andy’s wine glass, “then you cannot feel as though you are in my debt.” She looks up. “Nor I, in yours.”

Andy’s seen Miranda serious, and focused, and stern. This is the first time she’s ever seen gravity.

The nausea dissipates. She feels something rising inside her, consolidating in her chest. It flames and tempers in the burning blue of Miranda’s gaze. She nods.

Slight pressure as Miranda squeezes her hand and releases it. She sits back. “And,” she says, “you will need another position.”

Andy’s heart, so recently detonated, contracts painfully in her chest, even as a voice in her head screams _IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN_. She nods again, gritting her teeth.

“I’ve spoken to Irv,” Miranda adds.

Andy’s mouth goes dry. “You have,” she says faintly.

Miranda’s cheeks are pink. “If you—if we—wish to...” She hesitates. “Proceed. If we wish to proceed. There is a position at Bespoke that would suit you.”

Her voice sounds tight. She’s staring straight at Andy.

Once, in high school, Andy rode every roller coaster at Cedar Point in a single day. This is pretty much the same feeling. She sips at her water in an attempt to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Do _you_?” she says, once she trusts herself enough to speak.

Miranda looks at her, frowns. “Do I what?”

Andy has to force the words. “Have feelings for me,” she says.

Miranda looks away, the flush in her face darkening, but she doesn’t hesitate at all this time. “Yes.”

Relief makes Andy’s head spin. “Okay then,” she says, at which point the waiter, who has the world’s best timing, appears with the wine.

Andy sees Miranda relax a little at the familiar ritual of presentation, uncorking, sampling. She watches the swirl of red in Miranda’s glass, the way her lips part to sip, the way her throat moves as she swallows.

She’s going to kiss that throat. Maybe even tonight.

Andy’s never really understood the appeal of anticipation. In college, Trixie would flirt with guys for weeks before even agreeing to go out with them. It wasn’t that Andy didn’t like the idea, it was just that it seemed so _inefficient_.

She gets it now.

It occurs to Andy that she no longer has to act like an assistant. She doesn’t have to arrange her expression into one of cheerful helpfulness or eager agreement. She doesn’t have to keep acting like Miranda has no effect on her at all.

Miranda finishes orders, hands her menu to the waiter, and turns back to Andy. When she sees the look on Andy’s face, she goes very still.

Oh, yeah. Definitely tonight.

“I suppose if this is a date,” Andy says, noting with no small degree of delight the way Miranda’s eyes widen at the word _date_ , “we should get to know each other better.”

Miranda’s face does the thing it always does right before she rolls her eyes, but then she seems to catch herself. Andy never thought she’d be so hopelessly charmed by the absence of an eye-roll.

“My sister’s name is Jill,” Andy continues, pitching her voice low. “I play racquetball. I’ve wanted to kiss you since March tenth.”

Miranda does a sort of full-body twitch, her lips parting. She stares at Andy as though Andy has suddenly started speaking German. She swallows.

“Is that so,” she says, and her tone is sharp, but her expression isn’t.

Andy slides her hand across the table and takes Miranda’s wrist between her thumb and forefinger. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s so.”

*

Andy doesn’t ask that many questions and Miranda doesn’t ask any at all, but by the time they finish dinner, Andy has recounted at least four stories from her childhood. She’s very careful to avoid any mention of years or decades. Miranda doesn’t reveal a lot, but Andy learns that she grew up in Nebraska, which is something, anyway.

The wine bottle is still more than half full. Miranda tips her head toward it and looks questioningly at Andy.

Andy shakes her head. “No, thanks,” she says, pushing her empty glass away. She raises an eyebrow, smiles. “I want to remember every second of tonight.”

Miranda, who hasn’t even finished her first glass, looks kind of flattered. “Well,” she says, glancing down. “Next time.”

At which Andy’s heart almost somersaults out of her chest. She bites her lower lip to keep her grin from overtaking her entire face. “Yeah,” she says. She reaches for her bag and pulls out her phone. When she snaps a picture of the bottle—the label grainy and slightly blurry on the Sidekick screen, but still legible—Miranda actually laughs.

*

It’s a strange car ride back to the hotel. They don’t touch at all; they don’t even talk. It’s as though they’re both preparing for the inevitable.

Andy sneaks a glance at Miranda out of the corner of her eye and is startled to find that Miranda is looking at her. She thinks about all the times she caught Miranda with that hungry, wanting expression. This time, Miranda doesn’t look away.

“Hi,” Andy mouths silently.

Something flashes across Miranda’s face, so quickly that Andy’s not sure whether or not she really saw it. Her stomach tightens, because it almost looked like fear.

*

If it were literally anyone else, Andy would’ve just gone for it as soon as the suite door closed. Instead, they’re standing in the foyer like two gunslingers in a standoff. Andy can’t read Miranda’s expression at all.

She takes an experimental step forward. Miranda doesn’t move, but Andy sees the slight flare of her nostrils as she inhales.

Another step forward, and now Andy is definitely in Miranda’s personal space. Her face is scorching and her heart feels as though it’s about to beat right out of her chest, but she holds Miranda’s gaze.

She’s taller, even though her heels are lower than Miranda’s Jimmy Choos. The realization makes her breath catch.

“Can I—” she breathes, and brings her hands to the clasp of Miranda’s mink wrap. In her peripheral vision, she sees Miranda’s hands tighten into fists at her sides, then relax.

“Yes,” Miranda says. She shuts her eyes when Andy slides the wrap over her bare shoulders. And keeps them closed as Andy reaches up and lightly places two fingers against the curve of Miranda’s collarbone.

Miranda, Andy realizes, is trembling.

It’s not nerves, surely. Not _Miranda Priestly_. Could she be having second thoughts, or—

Andy runs her hand up Miranda’s throat. Hears the hiss of Miranda’s breath, and sees Miranda’s expression shift to something that looks almost like pain. She pulls, gently, just her fingertips against the angle of Miranda’s jaw. Andy catches a glimpse of blue eyes, and then Miranda is kissing her, and Andy is lost.

Hands at her waist, fumbling in their hurry. The zipper of her dress drawn down. Andy gasps at the heat of Miranda’s palms on her skin.

No second thoughts, then.

She presses her lips to the place where her fingers had been, just behind Miranda’s ear, and Miranda makes a soft, desperate sound that Andy will remember for the rest of her life.

“Let me—” Andy mumbles into Miranda’s throat, reaching, but Miranda’s already there, tugging Andy’s dress over her head and tossing it aside. Andy doesn’t quite have the wherewithal to return the favor, but Miranda seems to have that in hand. She sheds her own gown just before she pulls Andy down onto the bed.

Andy had every intention of doing it _right_ this first time, of lavishing attention on every square inch of Miranda’s body. But Miranda’s arched and shaking, slick heat against Andy’s thigh. She buries her teeth in Andy’s shoulder as she comes.

Andy comes a second later, helpless. It’s a feeling she’ll have to get used to.

*

Miranda’s hands are in Andy’s hair, idly stroking. The bedside clock says four AM.

 _I love you,_ Andy thinks.

“That was fun,” she says instead, and Miranda smiles.

*

Andy’s new position is secured in confidence on the way to the airport. Irv winks at her, which makes her sick with dread until she remembers that he winks at everyone.

There are still two hours until their flight. Miranda is talking in low, pressured tones with Jocelyn and Nigel. Her glance at Andy is pointed and unequivocal: this conversation is not for her.

She wanders away from the gate. Buys coffee, and an issue of Vogue, and a small figurine of the Eiffel Tower from a tourist kiosk near the duty-free shop. Her phone buzzes with a text.

 _Soon_ , it says.

On the plane, next to Miranda, she sits with her hands in her lap. Gazes at the horizon with warmth in her chest, and waits.

_(not) the end_

[misty blue (Dorothy Moore)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMONGMDEerI)

Oh, it's been such a long, long time  
Look like I'd get you off of my mind  
But I can't  
Just the thought of you (just the thought of you)  
Turns my whole world misty blue (misty blue)

Oh honey, just the mention of your name (just your name)  
Turns the flicker to a flame  
Listen to me good, baby  
I think of the things we used to do  
And my whole world turns (misty blue) misty blue

Oh baby, I should forget you  
Heaven knows I tried (you know I tried)  
Baby, when I say that I'm glad we're through  
Deep in my heart I know I've lied  
I've lied, I've lied (just the thought of you, misty blue)

Oh honey, it's been such a long, long time  
Looks like I'd get you off of my mind  
But I can't  
Just the thought of you (just the thought of you), my love  
My whole world turns misty blue (misty blue)

Oh, oh, I can't, oh, I can't  
Oh, I can't forget you  
My whole world turns misty blue  
Oh, oh, my love  
My whole world turns misty blue (misty blue)  
Baby, baby, baby, baby  
Baby, I can't forget you  
My whole world turns misty blue


End file.
